


Pandora's Closet

by estepheia



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Male Slash, Season/Series 07, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:51:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estepheia/pseuds/estepheia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is sometimes known as the Pandoraverse Series, because the installments were written months even years apart (2002-2004).  - Set after "Him". Spike has a soul - Xander has a closet. - Smut with a bit of schmoop on top.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pandora's Closet

# Pandora’s Closet

“Spike, have you seen my—” Xander stops abruptly. Spike sits sprawled on his bed, his back leaning against the wall. His pants are open and pushed down enough to reveal a pretty impressive erection, his left hand wrapped around his cock. The hand is not moving - all movement has been suspended when Xander barged into Spike’s closet.

Xander knows he’s standing with his mouth open. “Oh fuck,” is his not-so-witty reaction.

For a moment Spike appears embarrassed but then he gives Xander a look of outrageously fake innocence: pursed lips, raised eyebrows, batting eyelashes, the works. Soul or no, Spike has a certain image to uphold - at least when it comes to Xander. He’s not going to hastily cover himself like a nervous adolescent.

“Xander, what can I do for you?” He asks with just enough irony to turn the question into something resembling an invitation.

He tosses the magazine away so it lands open at the foot end of the bed. Xander automatically cranes his neck to look at the open page: One woman, two men – one blond, one brunette, with the blond man sucking the other guy’s dick while fucking the girl. Xander recognizes the mag, and that particular page. One of his favorites. Anya’s too. No way is this a coincidence.

“You went through my stuff,” Xander blurts out. He remembers the other contents of his and Anya’s well stocked box of pleasures and feels himself blushing.

Spike’s smile widens a fraction. “Merely livin’ up to your expectations.”

Now would be the time for Xander to leave, but his feet seem to be superglued to the floor. His heart is racing and his dick feels rock hard. Swell.

“What? You gonna stand there all day? Either join the fun or get out.” And with that Spike moves his hand up and down, jerking off with slow and deliberate strokes, ogling Xander. Gah!

‘Join?’ The option hasn’t even occurred to Xander. In fact, the remark is so left field that Xander automatically looks behind him to check if maybe Spike’s talking to someone else. Or maybe Xander’s just doing a reality check, making sure there’s no dream audience there to witness this surreal scene. “You’re a pig, Spike,” he splutters.

“Just horny.” The vampire corrects him, truthfully. “How ‘bout you?”

Okay, Xander recognizes a gauntlet when it slaps him. “I’m twenty-two and flying solo,” he says. “Of course I’m horny. Doesn’t make you hitting on me any less scary.” Is this a kind of aftereffect of the magical jacket? It works on guys, too? Xander resists the urge to touch the little button in his pocket. The one he found lying on the carpet and recognized as RJ’s, the one he really had no intention of keeping.

“Well, you know that I’m crazy, right? Means I’m bound to do crazy things. Also means I tend to forget those things afterwards.”

“I’m not gay.”

“Never said you were. I’m not.” Spike shrugs without once breaking the slow mesmerizing rhythm of his hand. “Just open-minded.”

“And horny,” Xander adds, unable to tear his eyes away from that pale long cock. Okay, it’s not the first time he sees another man’s dick in real life, but it’s definitely the first time someone is jerking off in his presence. His mouth feels dry.

Spike follows Xander’s gaze to his own hard-on and does a perfect double take. “Indeed, I am,” he exclaims in fake surprise. He looks up. “And look, so are you!” Spike’s practiced leer could put a shark to shame.

Xander back-pedals. His foot connects with the open door behind him and gives it a push. With a clack the door falls shut - with Xander still inside. Oops.

Spike gracefully gets to his feet and saunters over to where Xander is standing. He smiles. “Welcome to my parlor…” 

“…said the spider to the fly,” Xander finishes the sentence. It’s too late for a dignified retreat now, but probably not too late to bolt.

Spike stands before him, his gaze traveling back and forth between Xander’s lips and eyes, exuding a strange nervousness. He’s obviously worked up, but hesitating. ‘Timid’ is the word that comes to Xander’s mind. As if all of Spike’s courage got spent bringing him *this* close.

It’s the sudden realization that Spike isn’t the spider in this scenario that tips the scales. An almost overwhelming rush of arousal makes Xander’s hard-on twitch. He grabs Spike’s shirt, yanks him forward and crushes his mouth on cool parted lips.

So what if Spike’s a guy. Xander’s a grown up and he can be ‘open-minded’ if he wants to. Heck, considering the things he and Anya have done this is pretty much the last thing he hasn’t at least tried. If it sucks he can always file this under ‘been there, done that, nothing to write home about.’

Except it doesn’t suck. It’s hungry, greedy and god, so hot! Xander boldly thrusts his tongue into the vampire’s mouth. Spike’s resistance is perfunctory: he’s breathing heavily and angling his head, inviting Xander to deepen the kiss. Xander lets go of Spike’s shirt and pushes it off his shoulders, then wraps his arms around him. Spike responds by pressing his whole body against him. He’s willing alright. Briefly letting go of that hungry mouth Xander slips his hands underneath Spike’s T-shirt and clumsily bunches it upwards. Without hesitation Spike lifts his arms, letting Xander pull the T-shirt over his head.

Then there’s more kissing.

It’s weird at first, brushing his hands over a chest without boobs, but the nipple he finds is just as sensitive, hardening under his touch. Xander gives it a sharp twist, causing Spike to pant and buck against him. Okay, that’s something a man could get used to. Xander continues to squeeze and tease, experimenting with rough and well, rougher, until Spike is whimpering into his mouth. “Oh god, yes.” Spike breathes between kisses. He’s frantically rubbing his erection against Xander’s hip.

Xander loves kissing those lips, but hearing Spike moan and talk? So much better. Xander pulls back and starts nibbling on the vampire’s neck, tracing faint scar tissue with the tip of his tongue. Spike inhales sharply and wantonly arches his creamy neck.

Xander grows bolder and runs one hand down Spike’s spine and underneath the waistband of Spike’s already invitingly open pants. Spike wriggles upwards, urging him on. Xander finds a nice ass, muscled but round in all the right places and his middle finger fits perfectly into the crease between those two mounds. “God, there— yes. Touch me. Please!” Spike’s hoarse voice sends bolts of pleasure to Xander’s cock.

So far, Spike is doing little more than just holding on and writhing, soaking up every caress. Now Xander captures one of Spike’s hands and places it on the hard bulge in his pants. It seems to be the authorization Spike needs, because he nimbly undoes the button and pulls down the zipper. A moment later strong fingers close around Xander’s engorged cock and pull it out.

A slight downward nudge is all it takes; Spike drops to his knees. Xander runs a hand through Spike’s hair, upsetting its gelled discipline, gripping a handful for better purchase. A moment later one of his favorite fantasies comes true: He can watch his cock slowly disappear between Spike’s soft moist lips: first the head, then the shaft, inch by fucking inch. Holy shit! Spike starts using his tongue and the muscles of his throat, sucking and squeezing Xander’s cock with frightening skill, while fondling his balls. “Yeah, blow me!” Xander groans, later adding “Slowly,” and “Yeah, just like that.”

It’s Xander who sets the pace. Two years with Anya have taught Xander an unusual amount of control. More than most twenty-two-year-olds can claim for themselves. He wants it slow, wants this to last. But in the end he drops his hand to Spike’s shoulder, allowing the vampire free reign. Spike speeds up, humming lightly as, a few minutes later, Xander comes in his mouth with a loud shout.

Spike swallows everything, licks him clean, and then looks up, raw need written all over his face. His cock is still hard, poking out of his opened pants - but he stays on his knees, hands motionless on his thighs.

Xander smiles, realizing that Spike will do nothing without his lead. The ball is completely in his court. What an opportunity for payback. Maybe he should just leave the bleached wonder with a severe case of blue balls? It’s tempting.

His thoughts must have been visible on his face, because Spike shrinks and drops his gaze.

Funny, how sometimes things fall into place. Eyes cast down, neck and emaciated back hunched in resignation, Spike reminds Xander of the proverbial kicked puppy, the kind that always comes back wagging its tail, even if you beat the crap out of it. The kind that will only stop crawling back to you once it’s irrefutably broken. The image sparks an epiphany and Xander suddenly has an inkling of the whole Spike-Buffy debacle. Strip away the vampire and the bad ass posturing and what remains is a lonely and deeply unhappy man.

“Spike?” Xander holds out his hand.

Spike blinks in surprise, smiling almost bashfully. He grips the offered hand and lets Xander pull him to his feet. When Xander kisses him he responds with the desperation of a drowning man.

As he tastes his come on Spike’s talented tongue, Xander feels a dark veil lifting from his heart. Maybe it’s true what they say, that a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved.

 

He slips both hands beneath the waistband of Spike’s pants, cupping the vampire’s nicely shaped ass and pulls him closer, trapping Spike’s erection and his own semi-card cock between their bodies. His balls are still tingling, sending random little shudders through him - aftershocks of a truly amazing blow-job.

“Want you,” Spike is murmuring, “so hot,” and “please.” Every fiber of his being seems to yearn for Xander’s touch. Yearn – *not* demand.

Xander’s cock is growing hard again. Even for him it’s an unusually speedy recovery – Spike is really getting to him. Xander is beginning to think that he could come just by listening to Spike plead.

Another time, though. Right now all Xander wants is to make the other man plead some more, to make him beg for it. Spike’s moaning at the friction between their cocks, slick moisture creating delicious sensations. Xander starts kneading Spike’s ass. He digs his fingers into hard lean flesh with startling possessiveness – almost hard enough to leave bruises. He pushes Spike’s jeans down some more, then spreads his cheeks with strong hands and runs his finger down the crack, stopping just short of the other man’s hole. Spike bucks violently, almost knocking them over.

“Do it,” Spike pants. “Right there.” Teasing touches make him groan. “Xander, for the love of god… please …fuck me!” Two words. Coming from Spike they send a sharp stab of arousal into Xander’s groin, unlike anything he’s ever felt before. And that’s saying a lot, because he’s never had cause to complain about wild monkey-sex with Anya. His dick is definitely leaking now.

“Where do you want my cock, Spike,” he teases. “Here?” He crooks his middle finger, brushing its tip over Spike’s puckered entrance, pushing but not breaching.

“Yes… God, yes,” is the hissed answer. “Want to feel— inside. Feel you inside.”

Xander pulls back. “Then we better lose these,” he says and steps out of his pants. Spike hurriedly pushes his own jeans down. Xander’s hands twitch, eager to touch.

“What else did you steal out of my box?” he asks.

Naked, Spike wordlessly crouches on the floor next to his bed and pulls a tattered cardboard box out from underneath it. He turns it upside down. A few magazines and a dildo … fall to the floor. And a little tube of lube.

Two steps and Xander is standing behind Spike. One gesture and Spike is on his knees, bending over. Arms spread wide he grips the bed for support, then rests his head on the mattress and raises his ass. Xander has a full view of Spike’s muscled back, the curve of his shoulders and his finely sculptured limbs. It’s one of the most erotic things Xander has ever seen. He kneels behind him, picks up the tube and carefully unscrews the cap. A tremble goes through Spike.

When Xander puts his left hand on Spike’s back, muscles ripple in anticipation. Without much ado Xander carefully pushes a slick finger into Spike’s waiting hole. A muffled sigh can be heard that sounds almost happy.

Bless Anya’s perfectionist little heart – she tackled sex like everything else in her life: with gusto, complete lack of inhibitions and great ambition. Which is why Xander has a very clear idea of what to do. By the time he’s done preparing him, Spike is moaning and twitching impatiently, writhing in need, pleading. But he never once tries to touch himself.

Xander’s own patience is becoming a bit frazzled round the edges now. Spike seems to think he’s ready, so maybe he is. Xander carefully lubricates his dick and positions himself. Sliding the slippery round tip of his cock up and down the crack between those deliciously pale cheeks elicits a whimper. He rests the head at Spike’s entrance.

“Is this what you want, Spike?” Xander asks huskily, rocking his hips slightly, nudging and teasing the sensitive opening with the thick swollen head of his cock. Sliding in just a fraction.

“God yes!” Spike pushes back. “Want you to— need you to fuck me.”

“Don’t move,” Xander orders him. Spike stills, panting.

Xander swallows and puts his hands on the strong shoulders before him, feeling them tremble underneath his caress. He drags his fingernails lightly down that milk-white back, heading for the slender waist, pauses to caress round buttocks and lean flanks. Then he grips Spike’s hips and inexorably pushes forward. The incredible tightness, Spike’s loud drawn out groan and the sight of his cock sliding all the way in – fuck! – it’s utterly amazing. God, he’s fucking Spike! Xander feels his balls contract in a sudden rush of lust. It takes all his self-control to not just let go and hammer away.

He starts a slow rhythm; deep, long thrusts. It doesn’t take long to find the right angle. Each time his cock brushes the prostate, Spike is tossing his head, moaning wantonly. “Yes,” he gasps, “fuck” and “so good” giving away to “been so long.” Xander vaguely notices that as Spike is nearing his climax the expletives become less frequent. “Take me,” “Make me feel” and “hold me” – the raw desperation touches a nerve in Xander. 

Remembering Anya during her occasional bouts of insecurity, Xander stops thrusting, ignoring Spike’s groan of frustration. He drops back on his haunches, pulling his partner backwards with him, until they are both kneeling. His cock remains deeply buried inside Spike’s ass throughout the position change. The vampire is in his lap, impaled, while his back rests against Xander’s chest. Xander possessively wraps his arms around the slender body, pinning Spike’s arms to his side, trapping him in a firm fireman’s grip that leaves just one hand free for other things.

He reaches for Spike’s erection. It’s the first time Xander ever touches another man’s dick, but the way they are joined it almost feels like an extension of his own. He wraps his hand about the cool shaft, marveling at its hardness. It’s slick with pre-cum. He gathers some of the moisture from the tip and starts to jerk Spike off, slow at first but then with mounting confidence and speed.

Spike arches against him, moaning, twitching in his grip, no longer coherent. Xander leans his cheek against Spike’s. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs soothingly. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Spike comes with a keening wail, spurting come all over Xander’s fist. Xander is pretty sure some landed on the carpet and he couldn’t care less because Spike’s internal muscles are contracting around his cock and – fuck! Xander bucks a few times and then he too comes in an almost violent burst followed by about a dozen lesser spurts, emptying himself into the no longer cool body on his lap.

His body trembles with the effort of staying upright, but he has a boneless vampire on his lap who looks like he needs a moment longer to recover. Xander keeps his arms wrapped around the other man, then shifts a little, angling his arm so that Spike’s head rolls into the curve of Xander’s shoulder. He rubs Spike’s arm absently.

Two or three minutes later, Spike tenses slightly.

“Spike? You have to get off.” Xander tells him. There’s the sound of sharply drawn breath, but before Spike can say anything Xander explains. “You’re too heavy, you’re cutting of my circulation.”

“Oh, right.” Spike says sheepishly and gets to his feet. He turns around and offers Xander his hand. Xander allows him to pull him to his feet and the two men look at each other in wonder.

“Holy crap!”

“I was gonna say ‘bloody hell’ but I reckon that covers it too.”

Xander looks at his hand, still covered in Spike’s come. He studies it with a frown and takes a tentative lick. The taste doesn’t impress him but it’s not gag-worthy either. He knows Spike is watching him.

Xander grins at Spike. “A man could get used to this.”


	2. Pyrrha's Find

# Pyrrha's Find

Spike can’t sleep. Strictly speaking, he doesn’t want to. He’s lying on his narrow cot, on his belly, his face turned sideways. He’s still naked. His hard-on is trapped between his body and the mattress. He doesn’t move. All he does is breathe in and out. In and out.

The closet has its own stale odor carrying the memories of Xander’s old basement: slightly moldy with just a hint of fabric softener. Maybe that’s because of the three big cardboard boxes that reside behind the pile of unused fitness gear. They contain comic books and model spaceships and other treasures never unpacked since Xander moved out of the basement of doom.

In and out.

On top of the familiar closet smell there’s a more vibrant scent: human, male, healthy, sweaty. A very down-to-earth scent that is seasoned with hints of soap, shampoo, and after shave – always the same brands for the past few years. Xander is conservative that way.

In and out.

It’s how a vampire commits places, people and events to memory. What Spike is really inhaling is the smell of sex. Unlike Xander, he didn’t take a shower afterwards. Spike can still smell both his and Xander’s come clinging to his flesh. He can still taste Xander’s come in his mouth. He remembers the other man’s cock sliding in and out and is filled with longing.

Tomorrow, Xander will tell him it was a mistake and that they should both try to forget what happened.

If that’s what he wants – fine. Spike has no intention of ever forcing himself on anyone again. Vampires aren’t fast learners, but that’s one lesson he’s finally mastered: Never to go where he’s not wanted.

But he can always go back to the memory.

***

Xander can’t sleep with so many things on his mind. He’s lying on his back on his bed that’s much too big for just one person, arms folded underneath his head like a pillow. He’s wearing boxers and a T-shirt, standard bachelor sleep wear. He’s totally relaxed. Every now and then a feather-light tremor of pleasure courses through him, as his body remembers what it’s done. Where it’s been. Every time this happens his semi-hard dick perks up slightly at the idea of an encore… then softens again in lazy post-orgasmic contentment.

The moment of panic and king sized embarrassment already lies behind him. He managed to get out of Spike’s closet without screwing things up, saving the whole ‘Holy crap, what was that?’ for when he was under the shower, washing his and Spike’s come off. Afterwards he made it past Spike’s open room with a nervous but non-committal ‘Gonna turn in’ and a slightly hurried ‘Night’ before shutting the bedroom door behind him.

The bedroom is quiet except for the sound of Xander’s own breathing. Outside, crickets are chirping. Occasionally a car drives past the condo, the only proof that Xander isn’t the only one still awake.

Xander listens.

Spike’s closet is on the other side of the wall. Xander wonders if Spike is asleep. He hasn’t come out, not to shower and not to leave. That’s weird because at this time of night the vamp is usually up and about, either roaming the streets for god knows what or holed up in his closet listening to The Stranglers or The Clash – the music just loud enough to seep through the plaster and the layers of drywall but too low to make out the words or individual tunes.

Xander listens.

‘Take me’ and ‘hold me’ – that’s what Spike said at the end. No longer arrogant, cocky or scary. Xander can almost hear him in his head. ‘Fuck me’ and ‘need you’ – the memory of the words and the unmasked desperation in Spike’s voice wash over him like an arid breeze and cause his breath to hitch and his dick to twitch.

Tomorrow everything will feel like a dream. Xander doesn’t know why, but he’s pretty sure that if he doesn’t bring up what happened, then Spike won’t either. Tomorrow, in the harsh light of day, everything will be just like before. They’ll avoid each other, swap a few half-hearted insults and stay on their separate paths.

Xander wonders if Spike breathes when he sleeps.

* * *

There’s a soft knock at the door.

“Yeah?”

The door opens and Xander’s silhouette appears before dull moonlight. “Spike? Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Wasn’t sleeping.” Spike says gruffly. He’s still lying on his stomach, legs slightly spread apart. The sheet only reaches to his thighs.

Xander swallows. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.” Spike reaches for the light switch of the cheap lamp and floods the room with brightness. The artificial light makes him look even more washed out than normal.

He turns around and sits up, pulling the sheet up to his waist and for that Xander is thankful. So much easier to talk without the distraction of full frontal Spike nudity.

“You’re here to tell me to forget it ever happened. And if I tell anyone you’ll stake me,” Spike says, sounding strangely worn out. He shrugs self-deprecatorily. “You can save yourself the trouble. Who’d I tell? No one ever talks to me anyway.”

“Is that what Buffy said? That she’d stake you?” Xander asks even though he swore to himself never to ask about any details regarding their relationship.

The brief flash of hurt in blue eyes answers his question, before Spike’s expression becomes more guarded. “Why are you still here? Right, I forgot. Probably want your stuff back.” Spike bends over the edge of the bed and pulls out the infamous little cardboard box.

“Believe it or not, that’s not why I’m here,” Xander tells him. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, do you?”

“Well, yeah,” Spike tells him with a slightly muted smirk. He holds up his little finger, counting upwards: “Vampire.” Ring finger: “Tried to kill you lot.” Middle finger: “That thing with Anya.” Index finger: “Buffy. Four reasons why you hate my guts.” Spike drops his hand but then changes his mind and sticks out his thumb: “And you’re not gay. How’m I doing?”

Xander surprises Spike by sitting down on the edge of the cot. He holds up his hand, fingers spread out, holding Spike’s gaze. “Not gay? After what happened I’m not so sure. Let’s just go with ‘open-minded’ for now, okay?” There. He’s said it. That wasn’t so difficult, was it? He bends the thumb. The next reason is much more difficult to let go of. “Buffy? She didn’t stake you so I guess I’m not getting the whole picture here. Maybe I never will. Her call.” At that he bends the index finger. “Anya? As much as I hate to admit it, but I managed to sink that ship all on my own.” The middle finger. “The trying to kill us? Willow got a lot closer to killing us all than you ever did.” Xander bends the ring finger. There’s only one finger left, the little pinky. Xander wiggles it. “And that vampire thing?” He shrugs. “Nobody’s perfect.”

Spike watches the whole countdown looking completely dumbfounded, then his eyes narrow with suspicion. “You feelin’ alright? You been replaced by a pod person? Popped some happy pills?”

Xander pats his legs, arms and torso, the way he usually checks for injuries after a fight and grins. “Nope, as far as I can tell it’s the real me,” he replies. His heart is beating rapidly and he knows he’s flushing with nervousness and desire, yet he meets Spike’s scrutiny evenly.

Spike’s naked chest is rising and falling and his nostrils are flaring. He can smell the boy’s—man’s arousal. Doesn’t mean he has a buggerin’ clue what’s going on in Xander’s head or what’s going to happen next.

For a moment they are both silent, reaching for words, the right words. Insults are easy - a dime a dozen. But an actual conversation?

“Do you want to?” Xander finally asks. “I mean, forget about what happened?”

Spike doesn’t answer at once. Just stares at him, eyes hungry. Then he stubbornly raises his chin. “No I don’t.”

“Good,” Xander says and leans forward. His lips brush lightly over Spike’s. Then he pulls back and gets to his feet. “I gotta go to work tomorrow morning. So I better start catching some z’s now. But if you wanna join me – the bed’s big enough for two.”

A few minutes later they are both fast asleep.


	3. Aurora's Light

# Aurora’s Light

Beep beep beep. Pause. Beep beep – slap. The alarm clock falls silent.

Like every morning, Xander sinks back into the warm softness of his pillow. 6 am. In ten minutes the clock will beep again and then he’ll have to fight the pull of gravity and get up. After that: shower, coffee, breakfast on his own, work. Like every morning.

Or not.

Something cool is touching his calves – something that feels suspiciously like a pair of cold feet. Feet usually come attached to legs and these are no exception. These legs are attached to a tight ass, which leads to just one conclusion: there’s an undead guy in Xander’s bed.

Xander listens. Nothing. Just his own slightly accelerated breathing and the suddenly loud pounding of his pulse. He slowly turns around to take a peek.

Enough dull grayish daylight is seeping into the bedroom for Spike’s pale skin and blond hair to stand out against the sky-blue covers. The way he’s lying, his feet are in Xander’s half of the bed, while the head lies in the diagonally opposite corner. The covers have slid down so Xander gets a good look at Spike’s arms, shoulders and his bare back. It’s light enough to make out a very faint criss-cross of thin scars. Spike is clutching the pillow, head turned sideways, facing Xander, eyes closed. He’s asleep – or faking it.

Xander takes a deep breath. This is it, the harsh light of day. Now would be the right moment to freak. Yeah, part of him wants to play three monkeys - eyes, ears and mouth closed up tight - and plead temporary insanity for last night’s—whatever. But the greater part of him is relieved that Spike’s presence makes chickening out pretty much impossible. Plus, Xander feels well rested and mellow, more relaxed than in a long time, so instead he props up his head on his elbow and studies the other man’s face. 

It’s easy to understand what the women see in him. It’s a pretty face, a little gaunt and sad of late; pain and woe normally lurking just beneath the skin, but occasionally they show through, like now. As Xander stares, Spike tightens his grip around the pillow, misery distorting his features. Spike draws in a shuddering breath and holds it for an inhumanly long time before his face softens again and he exhales with an almost inaudible sigh.

There’s a strange intimacy in watching another person sleep 

Beep bee—

Xander spins around and quickly kills the alarm. But this time, when he turns back, blue eyes are looking at him. A half smile appears for an instant before it is locked up behind a blank mask.

“Waffles or fruit loops?” is the first thing that pops into Xander’s mind and out of his mouth. “Um, for breakfast, I mean.”

Spike blinks slowly. “Breakfast?" he asks, voice low and rough. There’s a note of skepticism in the way his voice drops at the second syllable.

“Yea, it’s what you eat in the mornings.” At the last minute Xander swallows the automatic ‘nimrod’ that wants to latch itself on to that sentence.

Spike opens his mouth, but then shuts it with an audible snap. He sits up and nervously smoothes back his hair with his fingers. 

“What?” Xander asks, unnerved by the uncharacteristic lack of smirking and wise-ass snarking.

“Not so good with the pillow talk,” Spike admits hesitantly. His gaze drops to the rumpled bedspread and he absently scratches the scar on his brow with his thumb. “Usually, s’when I open my stupid gob that things turn sour. Don’t—don’t want that.”

“Ah. I don’t think that the imponderable question of ‘waffles’ or ‘fruit loops’ is going to put a strain on our—thing.” 

Spike looks up. That same small smile flickers for a brief instant. “Waffles, then.”

Xander crawls past him and slips out of bed.

Spike nods as the morning hard-on tenting Xander’s boxers becomes visible. “How about I take care of that first?” he asks suggestively - but his voice is strained and his nonchalance forced.

Xander swallows. His dick hardens some more at the suggestion and his breathing quickens. “Um, I… uh… It’s tempting,” he admits, “but this carpenter really has to take a shower, and…um… get ready for work. My boss is running out of tolerance fast.”

“Your loss,” Spike says, sounding indifferent, but looking quite forlorn. He doesn’t move.

Did he just turn down a blow-job? From Spike? Xander feels like a complete moron. Like he just turned down a lottery jackpot of a million dollar. It seems his feet are smarter than his mouth, though, because they refuse to budge. They seem rooted to the floor the way Xander’s eyes are glued to the pale sensuous creature that has turned his sexuality upside down.

Xander remembers Spike’s lack of initiative last night, his unexpected obedience, and the way that hard, lethal body became pliant for him. He remembers thrusting powerfully into Spike’s mouth and ass. The flare of heat the too-vivid flashback produces is almost too much to bear.

Before he knows it, he’s resting one knee on the edge of the bed and leaning forward.

“On the other hand—” he mumbles with a rare reckless smile, “—who needs breakfast?”

Spike meets him half way with a hunger so raw it can’t be faked, dispelling Xander’s fleeting, gut-churning worry that maybe Spike was merely trying to earn his keep. Xander encounters a hard mouth that wants to be crushed and conquered and thrusts his tongue inside. Spike puts up a struggle, but the tilt of his head is the first sign of surrender. Xander pushes forward, invading Spike’s mouth with his tongue and Spike yields, toppling backwards with a triumphant glint in his eyes. Xander follows, covering the other man with his larger frame and trapping both their hard-ons between their bodies.

There are suddenly too many elbows and knees and not nearly enough hands as they grope and fumble for more skin. In their eagerness to push the bed covers out of the way and get rid of Xander’s T-shirt and gaudy boxers, the two men almost tumble off the bed.

“This is crazy,” Xander mumbles as he pulls back to catch his breath, but then he swoops down again to plunder Spike’s mouth some more. Kissing is so much easier than questioning.

Spike’s only answer is an almost-whimper and a thrust of his hips. 

It’s weird feeling an erect dick pressed against his own engorged flesh; weirder to feel it rubbing against it. But oh, with Spike writhing wantonly underneath him, Xander could get used to ‘weird.’ The offer of a blow-job is forgotten as he rocks his hips, creating more delicious friction. Their cocks are slick with pre-cum, sandwiched between coolness and heat, sliding against each other with the chafing sound of skin-on-skin, and they’re hard - fuck! - so hard.

Xander captures Spike’s wrists and roughly pins them down on both sides of Spike’s head. Spike moans and bucks and arches his neck, almost pushing Xander over the edge.

Too soon!

“Be still,” Xander rasps out. Instantly the body underneath him freezes. There’s just the rapid rising and falling of Spike’s chest as he pants and a slight tremble that indicates just how much effort it takes to obey.

Xander gives Spike’s wrists a determined shove, making it clear that they are supposed to stay where they are, then he slowly trails his hands downwards. Spike’s panting becomes harsher, more irregular, as Xander’s fingertips brush softly across his chest.

Xander crawls backwards, then bends down and flicks his tongue over a hardened pink nipple, causing Spike to tense, almost twitch. Xander licks and nibbles, teasing the sensitive nub, unpredictably alternating between rough and gentle.

Spike’s abs are next, Xander traces their contours with the tip of his tongue, occasionally dipping into the navel. Once or twice his cheek brushes against Spike’s straining cock. Each time, Spike utters a strangled whimper but otherwise his control holds.

From close-up Spike’s dick looks huge and daunting. Xander stares at the hardened flesh and the fresh drop of pre-cum that glistens at the swollen tip, then takes a deep breath before resolutely wrapping his fingers around it and giving the head a tentative lick.

Spike inhales sharply. He twitches underneath Xander’s restraining weight. Okay, this started off with the idea of Xander getting a blow-job, so how come he’s now giving one? Somewhere along the line the Spike-gives-head-to-Xander scenario must have taken a sharp U-turn. But who says that’s a bad thing? Xander gives the shaft a long and lavish lick and hears Spike’s breath hitch again. This is fun. With a bit of practice Spike should be begging in no time.

Apropos begging, why isn’t Spike saying anything? Last night he talked dirty like a waterfall. Xander lifts his head to look at the prone vampire. Spike’s face is a mask of concentration and he’s biting his lip. Then the penny drops and Xander feels like a dork. He grins sheepishly. “Spike… you can talk now, um… just don’t move.”

Spike exhales forcefully. “Look, you don’t have to.…”

Xander’s grin becomes mischievous and he begins to slowly move his hand up and down, teasingly stroking Spike’s cock and causing him to shudder. His eyes never leave Spike’s face. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“What I want?” With Xander’s hot hand slowly jerking him off Spike finds it difficult to focus. He searches Xander’s face. “Suck me? Please?” The hitch in Spike's voice makes Xander realize that there is more going on than a guy wanting to get blown. Come on, Spike must have had a gazillion blow-jobs over the past one hundred years or so. What’s so special about getting one from a twenty-two year old human construction worker?

"I've never done this before," Xander cautions after another lick. "But I think it goes something like. . ." He slides the head into his mouth, sealing his lips and sucking hard as he can.

“Fuck! Oh yeah, like that,” Spike gasps, his body jerking before it is forced still. “Oh god.”

Xander likes the sound of that. He continues to suck and work Spike’s dick with his mouth and tongue, partly remembering what he himself likes and partly taking his cues from Spike’s moans and expletives: “Oh fuck— do that again, please… yeah, god yes, Xander, suck me….” 

His own neglected cock stays hard throughout.

When his jaw and tongue grow tired, Xander slithers upwards again to claim Spike’s mouth for a searing kiss that tastes of his pre-cum. Spike whimpers into his mouth. “Please. Let me—”

Xander covers him like before and aligns his cock so it comes to lie next to Spike’s. He starts to thrust, rubbing their slick cocks against each other. He reaches upwards and gives Spike’s wrists a nudge, freeing them from their non-existent restraints, thereby allowing Spike to move again. A moment later Spike’s hands are gripping his ass, urging him to grind harder into the tight channel between their bodies. “Spike, oh yes!” Xander can feel his balls contracting and his thrusts become more and more frantic. This is fucking hot.

“God… yes… please!” Suddenly Spike bucks hard enough to nearly throw Xander off, wetness pooling between them. Xander continues to pump away against Spike’s hard stomach and after a dozen or so thrusts he shouts and comes as well.

Outside, the grayness of dawn has turned into brightness. The bedroom is bathed in warm but indirect yellow light.

They lie on their backs, shoulder to shoulder, panting and waiting for their breathing – and in Xander’s case his heartbeat – to return to normal. The usual sounds of morning drift through the open window, birds twittering and people driving to work. Xander turns his head to look at the slightly rumpled vampire next to him - Spike returns his gaze. Neither Xander nor Spike says it out loud, but they both know that this is no longer a one-night stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Aurora is the Roman name of the Greek Goddess of Dawn.


	4. Pyrrha's Find

# Philia's Touch

It soon dawns on Xander that Spike will never say ‘no.’ Xander can walk into the apartment, toss his keys on the counter, bend Spike over the back-rest of the sofa or spread-eagle him against the front door, yank down his pants and take him without saying a single word – he’ll find Spike willing and slicked and just as silent. If Xander says “kneel,” Spike will comply; if Xander says “suck me,” Spike will open his mouth and a century’s worth of skill and experience will bend to Xander’s every whim.

It’s exhilarating, a roller-coaster ride of power and lust. The knowledge that Spike hungers for him is like a never-ending plunge, mixing vertigo with drunken bliss and just a tiny twinge of panic. Sometimes, during work, Xander has to lock himself into the men’s restroom to jerk off, because his mind and body can’t stop wanting Spike.

In the evenings, when he pulls into the condo’s parking lot, hands restlessly drumming on the steering wheel, Xander already feels himself hardening. By the time he urgently pushes his key into the lock all he can think about is pushing into Spike. It’s stupid, it’s hot and it’s probably wrong, but that first long thrust when he buries himself balls-deep in Spike’s ass, that wordless moment when urgency turns into blissful amazement, beats everything that’s ever happened to Xander before.

Tonight they’re in the kitchen, where Xander caught Spike making tea. The boiling kettle is vibrating noisily, but at least it’s no longer whistling since Spike managed to yank off the lid at the last minute. Spike’s hands are gripping the edge of the sink, his pants pushed down to his bare ankles. Xander on the other hand hasn’t even managed to take his jacket or shoes off.

“I needed that,” Xander groans, once the first breathlessness has passed. His hands are resting lightly on Spike’s hips. He pulls out a bit, then slides back in, eliciting a grunt of pleasure from Spike. He sets up an easy rhythm, hard but not too fast.

“Work was brutal, today.”

They never stay silent for long. Not just because they groan and grunt and talk dirty, although there’s some of that as well, but because a few days ago they found themselves talking - about Xander’s day, about Spike’s. Nothing profound, just every day stuff, and now they drag the act out for as long as they can, while Xander lazily thrusts into the hard male body beneath him. Inevitably, their breath hitches and their voices become strained. Sentences break off mid-way, suddenly meaningless, and words of three or more syllables turn into tongue-twisters. In the end everything boils down to Spike gasping simple things like “hold me” and “please” and Xander silently bringing them both to completion. They never talk much afterwards, because that’s what friends do—and they’re not. Sometimes, though, they watch television together and Spike no longer sleeps in the closet.

But right now they’re still talking…

“Brutal, huh? That stupid architect give you trouble again?”

“Yup. In today’s installment of the never-ending aggravation, Mr. I-have-a-degree-from-college-and-you-don’t told us to scrap three days of work because we lesser beings are quote obviously unable to even hold blueprints up the right way, unquote.” Without losing his rhythm, Xander pushes Spike’s button down shirt upwards until it hangs round his shoulders like a scarf, then bends down to lick the bare spine before him. One arm snakes round Spike’s waist to grip him tight. “How was your day?”

“Not so brutal. I—oh God, do that again!” Spike inhales and tries to push backward and forward. Xander grins and slows down until the steady pumping of his hand and hips turn into a languid rocking. Spike shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Read a book,” he confesses, unable to concentrate enough to come up with a decent lie.

Startled, Xander stops moving altogether. Swallows the mocking ‘you read, Spike?’

Tensing, Spike straightens slightly. Swallows an insolent ‘you should try it too.’

“What did you read?” Xander asks neutrally as he starts moving again, sliding in and out at a languid pace, determined to make this last.

“The Wasteland,” Spike finally answers.

“Is that one of my graphic novels?” Xander asks with a frown, as the title triggers images of Mad Max and post-nuclear deserts. “Alan Moore, right?”

“Not quite,” Spike hedges, but after a pause he adds. “S’poetry.”

That’s just too much. “What? Rhymes and cryptic word Smorgasbord? ‘Thus quoth the raven?’ You’re kidding,” Xander chortles.

“Better than Batman and that Electra chit romping through Metropolis,” Spike snaps, suddenly angry. Here he is, a vampire, for God’s sake, braced against an IKEA sink, pants down and is being fucked by a half-wit American geek who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow when it comes to English literature. There comes a point when irony cuts like a knife.

“Daredevil,” Xander corrects him. “Batman is DC, Daredevil and Electra are Marvel. And if you’re talking Batman it’s Gotham City not Metrop--” 

“Who the fuck cares?” Spike cuts him off with more than a hint of venom.

Gloomy silence. The only audible sound is the clamor of the rumbling kettle. Then Xander swallows and voices what both are thinking: “We’re arguing.”

“So what? We do that all the time.” Spike retorts, suddenly sober and very wary.

“No we don’t.” It’s true. In front of the others they always bicker, growl and yap, snapping at each other like dogs - albeit of the same pack. Never here, though, when they’re alone. Never when they’re rutting, frotting or sucking each other off. Always too worried a false word might shoot this weird-hot truce straight to hell.

“Yeah, we do. That’s the baseline,” Spike mutters sullenly. Xander secretly calls this the Spike-is-so-full-of-bullshit voice.

“You’re saying this is just a freak ten day high, and now that we’ve come down we go back to the old ‘I hate your guts and you hate mine’ tune?”

Christ, do they really have to go through this in mid-fuck? “Something like that. Had to happen sooner or later, right?”

“No.” Xander shakes his head, surprised at his own vehemence. The sudden movement spills down his body to where they are joined, causing enough friction to cause both men to shudder. Xander’s grip on Spike’s hips tightens. With the relationship pile-ups in their wake the chances of this thing coming up roses are marginal, so maybe Spike is right and they’re destined to go kablooey sooner rather than later. Whatever. Right now Xander knows only one thing for certain: he can argue with Spike till the cows come home, that doesn’t change the fact that he’s exactly where he wants to be.

“No?”

“I hate reruns.”

Some of the tension in Spike dissipates. “Except for the good stuff.”

“Yup. Some things…” Xander slowly pulls Spike’s ass towards him again, burying himself deeply inside the vampire. Again that breathless amazement. He runs his callused hands over the smooth ripples of Spike’s ribs and abs, groping and teasing. “Some things you just can’t get enough of.”

Spike sighs. “Yeah? Like what?”

A long lick. “Vanilla ice cream.”

A snort. “Passions.”

Dramatic pause, except for their panting and the slapping sounds of two rutting bodies. “Star Trek.”

“You’ve… got to be.. kidding.”

“Nope. You better… believe it.” The tremors of Xander’s chuckle leave them both breathless. And then they have other things to concentrate on.

“God, this is good,” Spike hisses at one time, when Xander’s fist speeds up its rhythm on his cock. “Oh fuck!”

“Hunhhhh.” Is all Xander manages to get out.

An hour later they’re soaking in hot water, crammed into a bathtub that’s way too small for two grown men, bickering and arguing, but both looking very much like the cat that’s gotten the canary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Philia is the Greek personification of friendship


	5. Alatheia's Gift

# Alatheia's Gift

“If I said I wanted to tie you up, would you let me?” It’s a question that has been spooking around in Xander’s mind for some time now. He’s gazing at the naked vampire who is lying sprawled beside him – outwardly relaxed except for one perfect foot that’s languidly twitching in an inaudible rhythm the way a restless cat flicks its tail, when suddenly the words spill out. The foot stills.

Saturday morning. No work. No apocalypse. They’re still in bed, lazy and content, lips and fingers sticky and sweet from eating sugar-coated donuts for breakfast. Sex would be next on the agenda, then a shower.

For a moment Spike seems frozen. Then, locking eyes with Xander, he wordlessly offers his wrists. Several seconds pass in which neither man makes a move. Xander can feel his own pulse hammering in his throat. Finally, Spike slowly lifts his arms above his head and rests his hands on the pillow, wrists crossed as if bound. There’s an inscrutable look on his face.

Xander is not sure if he’s happy with that answer, even though it whacks him with an almost painful surge of arousal. Being tied up didn’t do much for him when Anya experimented with it, but the mental image of Spike straining against ropes or handcuffs is a different matter. “Why?” Xander asks, fascinated by the promptness with which Spike’s cock swells to hardness under his gaze.

Spike shrugs as if to say ‘Vampire. Kinky.’

“And then? What if I wanted to—” Xander stops. Tries again. “What would you like me to do?” he asks, aiming for sultry. He ends up sounding nervous.

“Up to you. That’s the whole point, innit.” Spike doesn’t move, seems indifferent but Xander is close enough to see the blue of his iris pushed aside by insatiable darkness.

Xander grabs Spike’s ankle. Watching Spike’s face, he lets his hand brush upwards, towards the knee, along the inner thigh, slowly, marveling at the unnatural smoothness. Muscles tense underneath his exploration and Spike breathes faster, his wrists still crossed above his head, even when Xander’s hand closes firmly around Spike’s hard-on. Xander loves it when Spike’s eyes widen at his touch, that thrilling moment of raw hunger before invariably the long dark lashes come down, shutting him out again.

Xander doesn’t like puzzles. Trying to figure out why Spike does what he does is not a top priority. But occasionally his curiosity stirs and he wonders how far he can go. Wonders whether there is a point where Spike will say no.

And then, inevitably, one thought leads to another. What is this to Spike? What does he want with him? Xander has no illusions. He’s lost the trim of his swim team days, is out of shape, with handles round his hips from too many snickers bars and extra-cheese topped pizzas, hasn’t lifted the weights in the closet for months, and at work he pushes pens instead of wheelbarrows. He’s got stamina, a nice dick and is very good with his hands. Past a certain point he has few inhibitions – thanks to Anya. But he’s twenty-two, never made it out of Sunnydale and probably never will. He’s dull and dependable, or trying to be.

So what does a vampire who’s traveled around the globe a few times, who’s been round the block - what’s he want with him?

Xander pumps Spike’s cock a few times, then lets go to continue his tactile journey across this addictive body, with its hard muscles, hard bones, and skin as sleek as silk. Upwards, over a taut stomach, ribs far too defined, and a chest so perfect it makes Spike look like a piece of art; except for the multitude of scars - so faint, they’re barely visible even from licking distance but Xander knows they’re there, can feel them under his lingering fingertips. Tiny imperfections - each with a tale to tell. Only Spike doesn’t share. He’ll offer his body, give it away freely, but never the stories.

There’s one scar Xander recognizes, more noticeable than most, like a dent in Spike’s armor. Xander remembers it from when it was still a seeping hole in undead flesh, glimpsed through a tear in a black bloodstained T-shirt, back when he and Giles dumped Spike back at his crypt. When was that? Two years ago? It’s a good scar, kind of like a medal carved into flesh, a reminder of how Spike stood up to a hell god. But the others? The cuts over his heart? Self-inflicted, according to Buffy. Xander has touched them before, skimmed over them without a second glance, but today they give him an unpleasant chill. What if—

Suddenly kicked out of the mood, Xander reaches up for Spike’s wrists, not to pin them there but to wrench them apart. Then he brusquely turns away and slumps back to stare at the ceiling. His dick is still hard, but his mind isn’t.

Spike sits up. “What?” There is about him the intense concentration of a well-trained dog waiting for a cue.

“Sorry. I don’t think this is such a great idea.”

“Made you hard,” Spike points out and were this a perfect world, Spike would smirk and his hand would be there, between his legs, making his point all the—harder. But it’s not a perfect world and Spike doesn’t touch him unless Xander tells him to. Spike never makes the first move. For a while, Xander enjoyed that, being the one in control. But now? The longer this thing lasts the more he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. What does Spike want with him? 

“Look, if it’s something I said or did—” Spike begins uncertainly, but Xander doesn’t stay to hear the rest. He scrambles out of bed and rushes out of the room like a culprit fleeing the scene of crime.

The bathroom door closes behind him with a hurried bang and Xander stands there, panting, hands gripping the sink so tight his knuckles are white, the cold porcelain pressing against his bare thighs, forehead resting against the unyielding mirror, eyes closed.

It’s quite simple really, making a horrid kind of sense, considering their past history. It’s stupid, twisted and quite insane, which means it fits Spike to a tee: What if Spike is still doing it, hurting himself, looking for—for punishment? What if Xander *is* the punishment?

* * *

At the bang of the bathroom door, Spike flinches. He sits on the bed, staring at light blue sheets that are rumpled from brilliant Friday night sex, smelling of lube, spunk and sweat.

What the fuck?

It doesn’t help that he should have seen it coming. Mortals. Now they screw you, now they don’t. With their short life spans one should think they’d know how to make up their sodding minds. Dealing with humans makes traveling with Drusilla and her headless dollies for a hundred years look like a walk in the park.

What’s it take?

A cold and viscous ache seeps into his chest, filling it with blackness, until it feels like it’s about to burst. He waits for something, anything to spark the blackness into white-hot murderous rage, but that reflex seems to be muted these days. Not a twinge. A few profanities are all he can muster and even they feel forced.

Spike snatches his pants off the floor and pulls them on, his movements jerky, then fumbles with zipper and button. His hands are shaking so much, it’s pathetic. He glares at them reproachfully. “Fucking nancy boy, you are.”

This is a right mess. Whatever has gotten into Xander, it’s bound to happen again and Spike’s not sure he can take another one of those sex-hate-sex-hate roller-coaster rides. Better get it over with now.

Pacing through the room, Spike collects the few bits and pieces that have managed to migrate into Xander’s bedroom - comb, paperback, his boots and a few items of clothing, tossing them on the bed. Then he grabs the whole lot and heads out of the room, just as the bathroom door opens and Xander comes out. 

They both stop abruptly. The tattered copy of a Stephen King novel that crowns the armful of Spike’s possessions tumbles to the ground in a flurry of pages.

Xander’s jaw sets in an expression of grim determination. “I’ll do it,” he says and strides towards him. He bends down, picks up the fallen paperback and points it at Spike, almost accusingly. “You want me to tie you up, Spike? Fine, I will. And if you want to move out of the bedroom afterwards, you can. But for now? Put your stuff back.” Xander walks past him into the bedroom and returns the book to its place beside the bed, every line of his body radiating anger.

Spike silently wonders if this is the moment when things get ugly. Because sooner or later they always do. He doesn’t point out that it was Xander who brought up the whole bondage thing. He doesn’t even ask questions, he just takes a deep breath and does what he’s told.

* * *

Not much later, Spike is lying face down, shower-damp and supine, spread-eagled with his wrists and ankles held firmly in place by slightly chafing leather thongs tied to the bedframe. Xander has done a surprisingly good job, tying the ropes just tight enough to make Spike feel like a strung guitar wire ready to be played, but not to the point of real discomfort. A few droplets of water are tickling down his skin as they follow the curves of his body. More drip from his wet hair to darken the clean sheets.

Xander crouches down next to the bed. There is an old-fashioned razor blade in his hand. Lifting Spike’s head by the hair until they’re eye-to-eye he asks harshly: “What would you like me to do, Spike? Cut you? Make you bleed? Fuck you dry?”

Spike just stares into a face that’s flushed with anger and something else. He feels a flutter of fear in his stomach; not the sick gut-churning kind – after all this is Xander Harris - but a delicious chill. Spike is already aroused, his stiff cock sandwiched between his hard belly and the sleek caress of new, indigo-blue satin sheets. When Xander touches the tip of the razor gently to his cheek, without breaking the skin, Spike braces himself for the pain, while inhaling Xander’s scent greedily.

“Answer me, Spike.”

“It’s not about what I want,” he finally says, wondering if Xander understands what he’s being offered.

“Yeah? You think I get my jollies from hurting you and you come running. What does that say about you?”

Spike doesn’t answer, just lowers his gaze. How is he supposed to explain that physical pain can bring as much solace as pleasure? His head is a scary place, loud and harsh, crammed full with scarlet images and high-pitched voices, even when he sleeps—but not when Xander’s cock is sliding into him or when Xander is holding him or when physical pain blots out the ache in his soul.

Abruptly, the blade is withdrawn. Xander lets go of Spike’s head and stomps away. When he comes back he’s brandishing a soft black scarf. He expertly ties it around Spike’s head, blindfolding him. Spike’s anticipation reaches a new level.

He can hear Xander move around in the room, then there’s the unmistakable sound of a lighter being worked and wicks sizzling as several candles are lit. The smell of hot wax and jasmine wafts into the air.

The mattress dips beneath Xander’s weight as he kneels between Spike’s legs, then crawls upwards. A warm wet tongue laps droplets of water off Spike’s lower back then wanders up his spine heading for that ticklish spot, right between the shoulder blades, causing Spike to shiver. It seems like a strange overture, but who is Spike to complain? He is straining to hear or smell what will happen next, nervousness and excitement combining headily with the comforting knowledge that bound like this he has very little leeway to bollix this up. 

There’s motion between his legs as Xander shifts, then an unfamiliar rattling sound. Something soft and cool touches the back of his heel. It wanders upwards at a steady pace, following the curves of his leg to his ass. It’s a strange sensation, light and dry but other than that it feels like a big squishy tongue, and it’s not so much dragged over his skin but—

“Anya read about this in the Net, in one of her ‘better sex’ chat groups,” Xander says conversationally, maneuvering the unidentifiable softness upwards, across the planes of Spike’s back, along his outstretched arm and back, up and down the other arm, then south, footwards, but this time caressing the back of the other leg. Then he pauses. “So it’s probably an old hat for you.”

Spike exhales audibly and shakes his head emphatically.

The fact that Xander is capable of great patience and precision probably shouldn’t come as a big surprise, but after the urgent couplings of the last two weeks, it does. As the fluffy sensation rattles over every inch of his back, the insides of his legs, touching his balls and teasing his cheeks, Spike’s hands clench and unclench with his mounting need. Too soft, too good. Small breathy moans escape him, even though they make him sound like a pathetic puppy.

The mattress tilts again and the mysterious object is placed aside. There’s an expectant flutter in Spike’s stomach.

A sudden lemony tang reaches his nostrils and then hand-warm liquid drips onto Spike’s back. Moments later, strong hands are kneading the slick oil into Spike’s skin, massaging his back and shoulders. It seems Xander is putting most of his weight into the task, because Spike feels comfortably pinned, grounded. More oil, more rubbing and stroking – it’s soothing and arousing at the same time. When Xander’s hands reach his ass, Spike is straining against the ropes, trying to arch into the touch, then back down to drag his aching need against the bed, but the restraints render his movements pretty much ineffectual. Xander pours more oil into his hands, waits till the liquid has warmed and then massages Spike’s inner thighs, occasionally brushing lightly against his balls. “God, yes,” Spike moans into the pillow. “Yes, please.”

He can hear Xander’s breathing accelerate. It could be from exertion, but the heady smell of human arousal says it isn’t.

“Please what?” Xander’s voice is thick with tension.

Spike pants, trying very hard to fathom what Xander wants to hear but finding it impossible to think while his body is humming with pleasure and need. “Fuck me?” he gasps, hastily adding a “Please?” before holding his breath.

“No. Try again.”

Spike gasps with frustration. Still those warm hands continue to stroke and knead, moving to his ass. Firm circular movements that rhythmically – and almost unintentionally - tug his cheeks apart. Oil-slick fingers. There. Sliding between his cheeks. Oh God.

“Hurt me?” Spike tries, his voice wavering.

“No.” Angry. Hands are withdrawn. Suddenly bereft, Spike tenses, his whole body arches off the bed and the leather creaks harshly, then he slumps down again. He hears a whimper and barely recognizes his own voice. “Xander—”

He turns his head sideways, swallows, tries again. “Xander, please. Just tell me what—”

“No, you tell me!” Xander shouts. “What do you want? Is getting fucked by the glorified brick-layer your idea of penance? Tell me, Spike. Am I supposed to feel like hurting you? Cause if that’s what you want you’re A) going about it the wrong way and B) you can go find someone else.”

Stunned silence. A dozen replies tumble through Spike’s head, with ‘Are you suddenly gone daft?’ or ‘Shut up and fuck me already’ almost making it into spoken words.

“No. It—it’s not like that,” he finally manges, feeling strangely naked – which is ironic, considering that he’s lying here butt-naked, blind-folded and trussed up, but that’s never made him feel vulnerable before. Maybe it’s because he can’t see Xander’s face. “I like what you do to me. When you’re inside of me—” He swallows. “I need— Please.”

“Why? Why me?”

“Ironic, innit?” Spike laughs bitterly. “You and me, after all we’ve said to each other...”

When Xander stays silent, Spike takes the plunge. “There are times when I’m ready to gnaw my own arms off, like a sodding octopus. But not with you. Not anymore.”

For almost a minute Xander is silent, then the bed rocks as he changes position. Warm hands brush over Spike’s thighs again, then cup the cheeks of his ass, spreading them slightly. Spike nearly cries out because suddenly there’s a wet raspy tongue lapping at his balls. So good.

“How is that?” Xander asks after a moment. From the tone of his voice he’s smiling. His hot breath is tickling the sensitive skin between Spike’s legs.

“More?” comes the wobbly reply.

“Magic word?”

Spike grins. “Now!”

A slight chuckle and Xander’s tongue is back, this time traveling upwards at an excruciatingly slow pace that soon has Spike writhing with want.

“Do that, there, oh god, yes.”

Turns out, Xander has a practiced tongue. It also turns out that the leather thongs are strong enough but the bed frame isn’t, because as Spike thrashes around with Xander’s tongue pushing into him, there’s a loud crack as wood splinters. Both men pause for a moment, waiting for the bed to collapse but so far it holds.

“I think we need a new bed,” Xander mutters.

“See that you pick something a little more durable.”

“Uh-huh.” Xander shifts his weight experimentally. The bed tilts precariously. When he reaches for the lube the bed creaks. “Guess we better take this slow. Hear that, Spike? Try not to move so much.”

“You try lying still with a tongue up your arse.”

“Any time, Spike.”

Xander slicks himself and a moment later he is slowly pushing inside. And there it is again, that breathless moment of completion. Underneath him Spike is breathing a happy sigh. Xander covers him, lies on Spike’s lemon-scented oil-slick back like a warm heavy blanket. He gropes with one hand at Spike’s face and pushes off the blindfold. Then after a moment of hesitation he clasps Spike’s hand, the one that’s gotten free and threads his fingers through Spike’s.

And like that, with his cheek resting on Spike’s, he slides in and out, setting up a slow trot with shallow thrusts. Spurred on by the weird mix of endearments and profanities flowing from Spike, Xander slowly gathers speed and momentum, and in the end rides them both to a crushing finish, that leaves the bed in pieces and the two men spent but laughing on the floor.

“You definitely want metal for the next bed,” Spike tells him, drowsily, once the first mirth has abated. He feels well-fucked and his head is wonderfully quiet. A cigarette would be nice.

“And proper handcuffs,” Xander adds.

“That’s the spirit.” Spike props up his head. “So, what was that thing you used?”

Xander grins and fumbles among the debris of the bed, then triumphantly brandishes a paint roller. “It’s the lambskin,” he explains. “Cool, huh?”

Spike wordlessly holds out his hand. Xander passes him the paint roller and Spike touches the lambskin, gives the cylinder a spin, then trails it experimentally across Xander’s leg.

“What was that about octopuses?” Xander asks.

“They say octopuses eat their own arms when they get—” Spike stops, visibly embarrassed.

“Get what?”

“Lonely. Sad. Lovesick.”

Xander thinks of the Anya-shaped hole in his life and his apartment and nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Alatheia is the Greek goddess of truth.


	6. Living With Proteus

# Living With Proteus

While Xander showers, Spike drifts aimlessly through the apartment. Chewing on a cruller, he peers into the fridge, puts the kettle on for a left-over tea-bag that reached sell-by date two years ago, and flicks through Xander’s depressingly country CD collection. With every breath he takes he can smell lemons and jasmine. He feels strange, unable to give the feeling a name. It’s not in his nature to be sated, but this is coming close.

It fills him with dread.

It’s too good to last. Inevitably, he’ll do or say the wrong thing, true to form, like a stupid wind-up toy banging its cymbals, and then he’ll be out in the cold again. Probably when it cuts deepest. Just who or what is fucking with him, universal justice, divine retribution, or just plain rotten luck – Spike has no idea. And it’s not like it matters anyway.

When Xander reappears in his white bathrobe, vigorously toweling his damp and soft hair and sprouting a genuine smile, his skin pink and rosy, Spike has a coffee ready for him. Instant coffee, but still. It’s the first time he’s ever made anything for Xander and he pushes the mug towards him with a self-conscious shrug that clearly translates into ‘don’t get used to it.’

Leaning against the counter, dressed in nothing but his pants, Spike watches Xander climb on the barstool, take a sip and grimace.

“Too strong?”

“Maybe just a little,” Xander chokes out and shovels more sugar into the mug. “How many spoonfuls did you put in there?”

“Three or four, don’t remember. Never drink coffee, caffeine makes me all jittery.”

“Four! That would make anyone jittery, Spike.”

“Lemme pour that away. I’ll make a new one,” Pod-Spike offers.

“Nuh, don’t worry about it.” Like a dog with a bone, Xander holds on to his mug and braves another mouthful, trying very hard to look appreciative, when a white powdery substance on Spike’s lower lip catches his attention. “Hey, don’t tell me you ate all the donuts.”

Before Spike can decide whether to stick out his chin defiantly, or affect contrition, Xander has grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him in, until Spike is standing before the barstool, hip lodged between Xander’s thighs. A moment later, Xander’s coffee-flavored mouth is on his, sucking and licking the sugar off his lips, tasting him without urgency. It’s a soft kiss, and literally bittersweet.

When Xander lets go, they’re both stunned. Then, in telling clumsiness, Spike knocks over his tea mug and in the hubbub of frantic tissue grabbing and carpet cleaning the moment quietly slips away. Once they’ve dealt with the mess they’re no longer sure what they’ve seen in the other’s face and they’re too irresolute to bring it up.

\+ + +

Together they dismantle the wreck that used to be Xander’s bed and put the mattress on the floor. The wooden legs and other parts of the splintered bed-frame wander into Xander’s storage room.

“What d’you want with that rubbish anyway?” Spike asks, when the bedroom is habitable again.

“Waste not, want not,” Xander lectures him cheerfully. “Stakes. You can never have too many of those.”

“Pfft. I use whatever is close at hand,” Spike mutters. “Queue stick, broom handle. Improvisation, that’s the thing.”

“Yeah well, I like mine smooth and pointy,” Xander insists, proud of his workmanship and the finely whittled stakes he can produce. “That long,” he holds his hands 10 inches apart, “And just thick enough to wrap your hand around.”

Spike gives him the raised eyebrow.

“And…” Xander continues with a lopsided grin, “… I’ll just pretend that this remarkably cliched piece of double entendre was deliberate, before I lose my wise guy credentials.”

Spike’s answer is a fleeting grin, easy and good-natured, with just a hint of goofy thrown in. It reaches parts in Xander’s anatomy where no vampire and no guy has ever gone before. Their eyes meet and there it is again, that weird tongue-tied awkwardness.

It’s their first full day without work, slaying or other commitments. They could veg out, decapitate a few bottles, watch a DVD, something with lots of explosions. Or maybe they should do something special. The sheer sappiness of the thought jolts Xander off cloud number nine.

“Now what?” he asks abruptly. Sex! They could always have more sex. There’s no such thing as too much sex, not when you’re twenty-two. And Spike is sex-on-a-stick.

Sex-on-a-stick shrugs. Fidgets. Rubs the scarred eyebrow with his thumb. Pats his pockets in search of his cigarettes. When he should be sticking his cool hands down Xander’s pants and stroking him to hardness.

Xander’s eyes narrow as his good cheer slowly dries up.

Xander never thought he’d miss Anya’s direct and bossy requests for sex, as ill-timed and embarrassing as they were. At least with her Xander never had to play ‘guess what I’m thinking now’. Why does Spike have to be Mr. complicated? Xander doesn’t like complicated. Normally, if something’s uneven, he whittles the offending bumps away.

“Right—uh--gonna fix myself some lunch,” Spike announces, when the silence grows awkward, and makes a beeline for the fridge, where he keeps his blood in a large jar. It looks almost like raspberry syrup.

Xander follows him and for a brief, breathless moment he considers pushing Spike against the fridge, grabbing his hand and placing it on his hardening dick. Within seconds, his pants would be open. One nudge or word and Spike would be on his knees, Xander’s dick between his lips, sucking and licking, taking him all the way in. Guh! Xander doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of watching his cock slide in and out of Spike’s mouth.

Xander swallows. His heart is pounding and he’s rock-hard.

Spike sets his jar aside and regards him silently. There’s a question in the way he raises his eyebrow.

Xander shakes his head. He opens a cupboard, grabs a mug and thrusts it into Spike’s hand.

While Spike heats and sips his blood, Xander putters about, preparing his own lunch. Under Spike’s watchful eye, Xander chops mushrooms, tomatoes and peppers and beats eggs, making himself an omelet, one of the few proper meals he’s able to make from scratch. There’s something about Spike’s silent scrutiny, that’s making Xander nervous. Xander compensates for Spike’s reticence by babbling about stuff like work, movies, comic books.

Sometimes the mind works in mysterious ways. It’s only when he looks at the white, red and yellow heaps of evenly cut vegetables in front of him, that Xander realizes he’s made enough for two.

\+ + +

They end up whiling the afternoon away in amiable boredom. Of course Xander wouldn’t be Xander and Spike wouldn’t be Spike if they didn’t find a way to rub each other the wrong way. It’s like giving in to an itch and scratching the scab off a slow-healing wound.

It starts off harmlessly enough: Xander goes on about his favorite TV-shows, Spike slags off every single one of them - while displaying a frightening familiarity with them. 

“Dru used to think them Klingons were demons. Wouldn’t listen when I told her that it was just humans with funny make-up. Dru liked her version better,” Spike says, an uncertain smile on his face. If Xander didn’t know better he’d think this is a clumsy attempt at geek-bonding.

Whatever. Xander’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to be regaled with tales of Spike’s evil past. The unbidden image of Spike and Dru sitting amiably in front of a blood-splattered TV-screen, surrounded by cooling bodies, sullies precious childhood memories of Xander’s favorite shows. Or maybe it’s just the mention of Spike’s ex-love of over a hundred years and the fondness in Spike’s voice when he says her name.

“I think I’ll go without the nostalgia, thank you very much.”

Spike falls silent, and that’s not what Xander intended.

“What, no snarky comeback? Cat got your spine?” It’s supposed to come out jokingly. Xander has no idea where the sudden venom comes from. 

Spike looks up, stung. A host of unguarded emotions flit over his features, faster than Xander can name them, and not all of them pleasant. His face sets into a grim mask and he pulls back, looking like a poisonous snake poised to strike. “You want spine? When did that happen? Must’ve missed the memo,” he scoffs, erecting a fence of barbed wire sarcasm.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, admit it. You like me best when I’m down.” Spike’s lips curl into a suggestive sneer. “On my knees.”

Xander’s jaw drops. His cheeks burn, because some of that is true, but not the way Spike is making it sound and oh god, is that what Spike thinks and how did everything get so complicated?

“I like you best when you’re not acting like a complete asshole!” he shouts.

“Oh, and when is that? When I’ve got your cock up my ass? Kind of ironic, don’tcha think?” There’s a hairline fracture in Spike’s voice and a muscle in his jaw tenses.

“Is that what you think, Spike?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” Spike bursts out, dropping all pretenses. “I mean, what else is there?”

Xander is stunned by the display of sheer desperation.

“Remember what you said, when this… started?” Spike starts to pace as pent-up words break out of their cage. “The ‘five reasons why you don’t hate me anymore’ countdown? Lovely speech that was, pet. But believe me, in here…” Spike raps his temple harshly with his palm “I’m still the same thing you hated before I went and got that soul. Still me. Don’t feel different. Well yeah, there’s the guilt an’ the self-loathing, plenty of that, but the soul? Doesn’t make me a better person. Doesn’t make me want hugs and puppies for everyone. It just screws with me for all the things I’ve done. So, it’s either you feelin’ sorry for me cause that’s how you work or--”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. Lemme get this straight. You think I’m shagging you cause I pity you?” Xander finally manages to get a word in.

Spike stops and turns to face him, breathes deeply as if bracing himself for the coup-de-grace, then looks up to meet Xander’s gaze. When he finally answers, Spike’s voice is calm but slightly strained, as if he’s trying very hard to be reasonable about this.

“I think you’re shagging me cause I’m a good lay. Beats spanking the monkey. Bit of a power trip too, doin’ a vamp. Which, I s’pose, is as good a reason as any. And this—” he gestures vaguely at the apartment, “this—actually, I don’t know what this is. You tell me.” He falls silent, looking spent, all his fire turned to ashes.

For a moment Xander is speechless, and that’s saying something. “Okay Spike, for the record: I don’t pity you. If you feel rotten about 100 years of Carnage ‘R Us, that’s as it should be.”

Spike takes this without flinching, just stands there, like he’s made of stone, with barely enough life in him to keep his dead body animated. Or maybe like he exists in a different, much slower time continuum, standing still while the normal bustle of life rushes past him. 

It’s not the first time they seem to be out of synch. If this were Star Trek we’d be talking temporal anomaly. There’d be level three diagnostics, a re-calibration of couplings or manifolds and plenty of manual compensating, and at the end of the episode they’d be synchronized and primed for a wisecrack remark or two. 

Unfortunately, it’s not that easy.

Xander stares at Spike, wondering why these phases of stillness are making him sick in his stomach. The more he thinks about this, the more he prefers his vampire twitchy and restless and annoying. And how is he supposed to fix this? “Come on, Spike, grab your blanket,” Xander says on the spur of a moment. “We’re going out.”

* * *

“This is your idea of a Saturday night out?” Spike asks incredulously, breaking the long, gloomy silence that has lasted the whole twenty minutes it took them to drive here.

“This is my idea of fun, yeah. I come here every week, because furniture is such a turn on.”

Beds. Dozens of them.

They’re standing in the bedroom department of the large windowless furniture store. About now, Xander realizes that this is a phenomenally bad idea. They’re two guys looking at beds. Okay, Spike is keeping his distance, his face a blank mask, but they’re still two guys looking at double beds. Eeep.

Spike doesn’t look like a customer, not even remotely. It’s not the clothes and the hair, more his almost metaphysical indifference. He’s there in the flesh but not in spirit – a bit like the Dalai Lama, except at the other end of the moral spectrum.

“Pick one,” Xander says, suddenly in a hurry to get out of here.

Spike shrugs and points at the nearest bed. It’s too small and it certainly doesn’t look sturdy enough for the things Xander has in mind.

Xander blinks at the bed. “I want to tap into a hundred years worth of kink and this is what you want me to buy? I’m deeply disappointed.”

Spike tilts his head, giving Xander an inscrutable stare that’s quite chilling in its remoteness. What Spike is searching for, Xander can’t tell. He tries not to squirm and stomps on the nervous impulse to burst into inane babble. His heart is beating way too fast and his palms are sweaty.

“Kink.” Spike echoes, eyes narrowing in speculation.

“Yeah, you know, the whole falling asleep and waking up together deal? Pushes my buttons. Big kink of mine. Actually works best with a bed, though.”

Spike contemplates this, his face a mask of concentration as if he’s trying to add things up, his eyes never leaving Xander’s face. The ghost of a smile appears, faltering and uncertain.

“I’m a bit of an octopus myself,” Xander adds and flaps his arms in an imitation of tentacles.

Spike nods at that, as if to say, ‘it’ll do’, or ‘good enough’ and then an unexpected grin curls his lips, wicked and sensual. Vintage Spike. He closes in on Xander in one liquid, graceful move, until he’s almost touching him. Now they very much look like they’re together. Xander swallows but doesn’t move away. He can be stubborn like the best of them. He stood up to a troll once, heck, he can stand up to this.

“You wanna tap into some kink?” Spike leans even closer. “Tap into this,” he murmurs into Xander’s ear, cool breath ghosting over hot skin, his crotch almost but not quite touching Xander’s hip. “Fuck me.”

“Now?” Xander squeaks. All the blood in his body seems to rush to his cock – at least that would explain the sudden absence of coherent thought in his brain.

“No, tomorrow,” Spike snaps. “Of course now, you nit.”

“You’re nuts.” But Xander’s practiced eye is already roaming the store, searching for a secluded spot. Why does Spike have to pick the most embarrassing and inappropriate moment to finally show some initiative? Because he’s Spike, that’s why. Well, it could be worse. Spike could have come on to him in front of Buffy. That would have been disturbing.

Spike leers and steps back, slipping seamlessly into his old evil swagger, heads for a sturdy looking double bed and shouts loud enough for everybody to hear: “This one looks good. The manacles could go here and here,” he grips one of the brass bedposts and slides his fist up and down in a pumping motion. Lucky bedpost.

“Spike!” Xander guffaws, a slightly hysterical note creeping into his voice. God, it’s hot in here. No wait, it’s the stares of at least a dozen other customers, grilling him. Trust Spike to turn an embarrassing situation into a truly mortifying one. “He’s kidding.” Xander affects a goofy grin, while glaring at Spike.

“I’m kidding,” Spike affirms with a bashful smile that could charm a nun out of her knickers. When he walks back to Xander the predator act is gone. Spike surprises Xander by grabbing his hand. Walking backwards, holding his gaze, Spike drags him towards the bed he’s chosen.

Xander can almost physically sense the shift in perspective among their onlookers – going from ‘sick perverts’ to ‘aww, how romantic.’ Funnily enough, he feels the same way, which is stupid, since this is just an act. A bit of play-acting for the rapt audience. Spike’s rapid mood swings are making Xander dizzy. And this particular one is making him horny.

He doesn’t pull back his hand, because – Christ - Spike would definitely take it the wrong way, but inwardly Xander can’t help doing a swift Leporello, mentally going through a long list of friends, work-buddies and family, wondering what the odds are that they turn up in droves to buy a new lamp only to find him holding hands with a guy. Ho boy!

“I’ll stake you for this,” he whispers, a smile plastered across his flushed face that’s only half fake. “Slowly.”

“That’s the general idea,” Spike tells him, eyes dark under heavy lashes.

“You do know you’ve just beaten Anya’s world record in public embarrassment?” Xander’s fingers take on a life of their own, tightening their grip on Spike’s hand.

“Yeah?” is Spike’s interested reply. “Good.”

“The restroom is over there,” Xander points out.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Spike starts to drag him off.

“Could you possibly be more obvious about this?” Xander cranes his neck, checking for onlookers. Sure enough, they still have an audience.

“If that’s what you want…”

“Spike!”

Spike does a half-arsed impression of innocence: raised eyebrows, flutter of lashes, pout.

“Spike, restroom. Now. I’ll just…um… pay for this and then I’ll… um…. come. Oh, and try to look sick.”

Spike chuckles and heads for the restroom. Xander whips out his wallet, grabs the nearest salesperson, thrusts his credit card and ID at him, points at the bed, hurriedly tells him to get everything ready for signature, grimaces, mumbles something about stomach cramps and that they shouldn’t have eaten the shrimp, then rushes off towards the restroom.

***

Thank heavens for small blessings. The restroom is empty save for Spike, who’s leaning against the wall with a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, and hastily unbuckling his belt.

The image and the metallic clink of the buckle send a surge of dizzying lust through Xander. He reaches for the cigarette, tosses it into the nearest sink and attacks Spike’s mouth in an urgent kiss. His hands need no prompting to seek out some of their favorite spots. Before Xander knows it, he’s clutching coarse bleached hair to hold Spike’s mouth in place as he thrusts his tongue inside, while the other hand kneads Spike’s ass through the denim of his pants. He pushes one leg between Spike’s thighs and grinds his hard-on against Spike’s hip, as eager for this as Spike.

When Spike pushes him off, they’re both panting.

“Here, put this under the door.” ‘This’ is a makeshift wedge, fashioned from a jagged piece of plastic ripped off the condom-dispenser. Xander forces it between the door and the floor, effectively jamming it from the inside.

“Hurry up, Harris, I haven’t got all day,” Spike snarks and pushes down his pants. His cock springs out, hard and urgent.

Xander gives the doorstop one last kick, then his hands fly to the zipper of his own baggy pants.

Spike plunges his fist into the condom dispenser, punching a neat hole into glass and metal and digs out a packet of condoms.

“You could have paid.” Xander’s pants slide down, revealing his own turgid hard-on. He frowns. “And you’re worried I’m gonna give you what?”

“Don’t fancy a wet spot in my pants after,” Spike tells him and holds up a red rubber. “So be a good boy and use a Little Red Riding Hood—”

Xander snatches it out of Spike’s fingers. It’s amazing how quickly one can put a condom on.

Spike salvages the still burning cigarette from out of the sink and takes a deep drag, then balances it on the rim of the sink, before dropping to his knees to take Xander’s straining cock into his mouth. Spike doesn’t waste time, he quickly wets it thoroughly with saliva while bringing Xander’s arousal to a fevered pitch.

Then he gets up, takes one last pull from his smoke, and turns to face the wall, pale ass sticking out, legs parted, flat palms pressed against cool blue tiles. Xander steps into the cloud of smoke, spits on his fingers, and hastily prepares the impatient vampire. Then he aligns himself and reaches around to grab Spike’s cock. Aware of the barely sufficient lubrication he slowly pushes inside, while starting to jerk him off. 

“God yes,” Spike groans, loving the feel of Xander’s strong warm hand on his cock and loving the feel of Xander’s thick cock even more. “Perfect fit,” he chokes out.

Xander is too breathless to reply. He just rests his forehead briefly against the blond head before him, then kisses the nape of Spike’s neck. As Xander starts rocking his hips in short but hard thrusts, Spike arches backwards, baring his throat, greedily sucking unneeded air through his open mouth. Xander licks the offered throat a few times and then starts to pepper it with tiny bites that drive Spike wild.

“Perfect,” Xander agrees belatedly, meaning the ideal way their bodies mesh as much as the look of rapture on Spike’s face and the way he is pushing back against him, wanton, debauched. Xander begins to thrust in earnest now, slowly building up speed while experimenting with different angles until Spike’s “Fuck, yeah,” indicates he’s found the right one. “Harder, give it me good, Xander. Oh, fuck!”

“God, Spike,” Xander chokes out in between thrusts. “I’ll never be able….to visit another … restroom….without thinking about …. this… thinking about …you.”

The lithe body in his arms bucks at this and Xander thinks he hears a breathless “Good,” but he can’t be sure.

It’s a hurried fuck, without great finesse. Fast and furious, but that’s part of the fun. Xander slams into Spike with a confidence bred by familiarity; able to read his lover’s sounds and moves, he knows that this time Spike wants it hard. At one point, Spike pushes Xander’s hand away and impatiently starts pulling on his own cock, his frenzy seemingly at odds with the previous hand-holding and the talk about Klingons and octopuses. Xander roughly fondles Spike’s chest, pinching, tweaking and scratching his swollen nipples, eliciting frantic moans, grunts, and groans and a string of profanities.

“Oh fuck… so good… god, I love your cock… yeah… ”

Xander finds himself pulling fiercely on Spike’s hair and sucking hard on his taut neck, responding to his lover’s urgency. Spike comes with a strangled howl and collapses, still impaled on Xander’s cock. The shock-waves of his release push Xander over the edge as well and he comes in a long drawn-out climax, claiming his undead lover in a crushing embrace.

“If we could bottle this, we’d be richer than Bill Gates,” Xander gasps, about a minute later, when he’s finally regained his ability to form complete sentences. He trembles, as another after-shock courses through him, causing Spike to shiver too. His knees feel rather wobbly.

“No kidding,” Spike mutters, chuckling.

His words are underscored by a sudden rattle at the door. The handle is pushed down a few times as someone tries to get into the restroom.

“Ack. How’s that for timing?” Xander pulls out with a hiss and a shudder and a fervent desire to grab Spike and find a nice comfy bed to be boneless in. Spike makes a displeased sound, but he bends down and quickly pulls up his pants, while Xander staggers into one of the stalls. Spike grabs the makeshift doorstop and wrenches it out of the gap, then steps in front of the sink to wash his hands.

The door is pushed open and a thin, nervous-looking man stumbles inside.

“Door stuck again?” Spike asks evenly, innocence incarnate, except maybe for the happy just-got-thoroughly-fucked vibe. His hair is a mess, standing up in all directions.

The man hurries towards the urinal. His panicked mien changes to one of bliss as he finally gets to relieve himself.

Spike presses the little lever at the soap dispenser and squishes some pink liquid soap into his palm. “You know,” he says loudly over the noise of running water and towards the closed stall, “You know what would be a great leap for mankind?”

The thin man freezes, momentarily worried Spike might be talking to him. 

A sigh comes from behind the closed door, together with the sound of a zipper being pulled up. “Nope, and I don’t wanna know but I’ve got the funny feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

The thin man’s gaze travels back and forth between the black-clad wanna-be punk and the closed stall.

Spike waits, heightening the tension until the thin man is almost ready to snap and ask.

“Lube dispensers in restrooms, you know, like them soap thingies,” Spike declares solemnly. “That’s what the world needs.”

Five seconds later the restroom door slams shut and Spike and Xander are alone again.

“He didn’t even wash his hands,” Spike observes.

Xander comes out of his stall and holds his hands under the tap. “Yeah, some people are just sleazy.”

He looks at Spike, Spike looks at him and then they both burst out laughing.

“You’re evil, you know that, don’t cha?” Xander gasps, when he’s able to speak again. Then hurriedly back-pedals. “And when I say ‘evil’, I mean not in the good versus evil sense of the word, but evil as in wreaking havoc with my h- hormones.”

Spike gives him a reassuring pat on the back. “S’alright, mate. I know exactly what you mean.”


	7. Finding Eros

# Finding Eros

"All done," Xander declares, ineffectually wiping his hands on his pants.

Together they regard his work.

"Looks sturdy enough," Spike gives the bed post a tentative rattle then tilts his head to look at Xander.

Spike's trademark smirk is a breath-hitching blend of indolence and come-fuck-me. Xander knows only one possible response. The screwdriver is tossed aside, missing the tool-box by a whole yard, and grimy hands home in on their favorite spots: one clutches an angular hipbone, the other cups a sharp cheek bone. Xander's thumb leaves a smudge on pale skin, but he can't see it because he's too busy thrusting his tongue into Spike's sin-flavored mouth.

Xander pushes forward, jostling Spike backwards. If Spike wanted to, he could dig his toes in and play brick wall, immobile and intractable, but instead he gives up ground, inch by inch, while his tongue pushes against Xander's. Spike loves to be persuaded and Xander loves to persuade. There's nothing like that butterflies-in-his-gut moment when Spike's defiance and attitude melt into compliance at his hands.

One more shove and they tumble down on the bare, unmade mattress, causing the stack of fresh sheets and pillow cases to tilt and spill to the floor unheeded.

Using his full weight to pin the breathless, open-mouthed vampire down, Xander rocks against his lover, rubbing his hardness against Spike's, pushing his knee between denim-clad thighs and fumbling with the buttons of Spike's shirt.

Meanwhile Spike's hands are raking over Xander's bare chest, strong, demanding touches. "Got another hole for you to drill," he murmurs against Xander's shoulder.

"Cheesy much?" Xander mutters almost unintelligibly, hampered by the fact that his tongue and lips are busy worrying Spike's neck and throat. He pulls back and they share a lopsided grin before diving at each other again. Xander starts to work his way down from Spike's sineous neck, across his chest, biting nipples that are hard and pert like pebbles. Spike's hands are buried in his hair, almost but not quite demanding a southbound course.

"Admit it, you like it when I talk dirty," Spike gasps, "love it when I make your ears burn. Oh yeah... do that. There. Christ!"

Xander used to think that Spike would be so much more tolerable with a padlock on his mouth. Boy was he ever wrong. Nowadays getting Spike to babble and moan and spew out a string of profanities ranks right up there with opening Christmas prezzies.

Xander's hands and lips find the waistband of Spike's pants and make short work of buttons and zippers. Moments later his hand and mouth close around Spike's straining dick.

"God, yes... Xander... oh God, do that, suck me...."

Xander grins, then relaxes his throat to take Spike's cock in more deeply. With a lover like this, who needs Christmas?


End file.
